Numerary Logic
by enigma731
Summary: Chase falls victim to serious illness. Angst, comfort, and eventual Chase/Cameron. On permanent hiatus.
1. Acidity and Basicity

_WARNINGS: moderately graphic medical ick_

_NOTES: AU, spinning off just after Airborne. This is very different from anything I've ever written fic-wise. It breaks most of my cardinal rules as an artist, and honestly I'm still not comfortable with that. I have in the past refrained from writing pure hurt/comfort fic, especially of a medical variety, because I feel like real medical conditions are often made a mockery of in an attempt to be dramatic. My goal here is to tell a correct story, and one which is filled with the utmost respect. I'll answer anything you ask me, and if there is interest will be posting additional information on my LJ, which is linked in my profile. Please feel free to friend me._

_DISCLAIMER: House and its accessories are not mine. It is the property of David Shore et al. There are no sites to credit for research here; I can't say when or where I first learned these facts, only that I now know them like my address or phone number._

* * *

Chapter One: Acidity and Basicity

It begins innocently enough with an itch at the back of his throat, an ache in his limbs as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His head pounds as he forces himself upright, but he chalks it up to too much pity drinking, and denied bitterness over the events of the past twenty four hours. His body has the nasty habit of reminding him just how many emotions he's deigned not to let himself feel by developing aches and pains.

It's raining outside, a spring morning thunderstorm, and for a moment he considers simply going back to bed, for once failing to be reliable in ways which no one will ever notice. But that seems unnecessary and immature to the rational part of his brain, giving in and actually becoming the person everyone else seems to see. He thinks about Cameron and the parking lot, and decides the last thing he wants now is to prove her right.

"Are you okay?" she asks, when he gets to work, and he wonders selfishly whether she's feeling guilty.

Chase gives her a look: _I know you don't actually care._ "I'm fine," he mutters.

And that's all it takes for House to know. "Did she get bored, or did you screw up and profess your love for her?"

For once House has it right, and that hurts worst of all. By noon the itch has turned into a full-fledged sore throat, and there's so much mucous in his head he can barely catch his breath long enough to participate in the differential.

* * *

Two weeks pass and he doesn't get better. It's like there's a creature at his core, stealing his energy and sapping his strength. Chase scalds his tongue on a cup of coffee he's tried to gulp down too fast and tries not to talk for the rest of the morning.

"Impatience got your tongue?" asks House, and everyone laughs. Chase looks at Cameron out of the corner of his eye and is almost disappointed not to see sympathy there.

He finds himself at the vending machine every break, buying candy bar after candy bar, but nothing ever gets better. Cameron's always talked about the magic of chocolate when things get bad; he wonders whether there's something wrong with him, or if she's just mistaken.

As always, no one says anything despite the fact that he's obviously sick. It's a relief coupled with bitterness as life goes on. The world moves around him while he stands stuck in a drug-induced haze, pining for clarity and wondering how House manages to function at all. Either they actually don't care, or he's finally managed to make his needs so invisible that no one can see at all.

* * *

By Monday of the third week, he doesn't bother to get out of bed. He spends the day staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring because he hasn't called in. Resentment is like poison building up in his veins, the feeling of being abandoned even though he's never really expected anyone to come through for him. Even Cameron, with her penchant for sick men, has not once asked what's wrong since that first day.

Chase catches sight of his own reflection in the dusty television screen (nobody's been here, no point in cleaning), and is suddenly terrified by his own appearance. He has the look of a wasting coma patient, dulled and withering, kept alive by something other than true will. He wonders for a moment whether he actually might be dying—garden variety flu doesn't last this long; he's never been particularly prone to illness. The suspicion's been there in his mind all along, but admitting fear is admitting need, and they haven't called. He pulls a carton of iced tea from the refrigerator with enough force that the shelf falls to the floor with a crash, and resolves once again not to say anything.

By the time it's gotten dark, his head is throbbing, and there aren't enough blankets in his apartment to warm him from the chills of fever. The phone seems to glare at him from the bedside table, mocking. It's ridiculous to expect anything of them, he knows; they're co-workers after all, not family. He thinks maybe he's angriest at them for that.

The sun wakes him just enough to stagger to the bathroom and back to bed. He's run out of fresh food, and canned food, and practically everything except water, but the fever is worse than ever and he doesn't think he can stand up long enough to go out for anything. Chase curls into a ball under the blankets, alternately nauseous and crushingly hungry. It takes him a long time to fall asleep, mind and heart racing, trapped in a body too weak to move.

* * *

When he wakes up again, something is dreadfully wrong. It's a nonspecific ache, pervading parts of his body that haven't ever seemed to have sensation before. It's as though his entire body has been consumed in nausea, from the hair on his scalp to his toenails. His blood seems to have been replaced with the leaden ice of anxiety, pulsing through his body in rhythm with the too-loud heartbeat that seems to be pounding in his ears.

For a long moment, Chase lies unable to move, certain that he's going to end up drowning in his own vomit for lack of the strength to even sit up. He takes a few experimental breaths, stomach roiling dangerously, bile like acid at the back of his throat, and finds suddenly that there seems to be a lack of air in the room. It's a battle between swallowing vomit and trying to force air into his lungs, suddenly desperate for oxygen. At last he lurches out of bed and onto his feet, buoyed by a fresh wave of panic and a heavy hand on his closet door.

The world seems terribly far away, like he's fallen into a splinter dimension where air is different, because it's suddenly gotten unbearably hard to move. The space between the doorway and the toilet seems to have stretched out, and he sinks clumsily to his knees, digging fisted fingers into the shag rug in front of the shower as a fresh wave of dizziness passes, the room spinning precariously around him. He has the sense of clawing his way along, inch by agonizing inch. Every impulse in his body screaming with discomfort. He can hear his own breaths echoing off the side of the tub, shallow and too fast, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach worsening with each one.

The tiles on the bathroom wall are blurred as he finally makes it to the toilet. He's been sick before, but never like this, bile burning his throat and tongue, waves of retching so strong that spots of oxygen deprivation dance across his field of vision. For a moment the nausea subsides, and Chase blinks back tears; the wall doesn't come into focus. And then it's like Armageddon at his core, like every fiber of his being has become toxic, his body trying to expel itself in a futile attempt at nonexistent salvage.

He uses every remaining ounce of strength to lean over the toilet as his stomach heaves, more fluid than he's thought possible expelled into the bowl, pain like his head is splitting in two, and the shocking warmth of urine running down his legs. He has the fleeting thought that someone ought to call for an ambulance, but he can't move, and there is only the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl against his cheek as he lets his eyes fall closed.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! 


	2. Too Little, Too Late

NOTES: I want people to have the opportunity to actually learn from this fic, since I know House is a show which reaches people with medical knowledge as well as stories. Since I don't want to write a textbook, I'll be posting separate entries with additional information on my personal LJ. (First entry of that up tomorrow.) I'll also answer anything you ask me. Please feel free to friend me if you're on LJ.

* * *

Chapter Two: Too Little, Too Late

"Patient presented to the ER with generalized flu-like symptoms." House caps his marker and taps the top against his chin, eyes glinting with the prospect of a new case. He's written something down, but from the motion of his hand it doesn't seem to match any of the words he's just said.

"Explain to me again why we're taking this case?" asks Foreman, not looking up from the journal he's been reading. Chase seethes inwardly at the smugness in Foreman's voice. His temper's gotten shorter lately, he thinks, or Foreman's gotten that much more intolerable.

"General flu?" asks Cameron, peering at the whiteboard. Chase can't see it past House from his angle. "Can we be more specific about the symptoms than that?"

"Fever, vomiting, dehydration, nasal congestion, rapid weight loss." House twirls the marker around his hand, catching it easily between two fingers.

Foreman looks up from his reading for just a moment, a look of utter boredom on his face. "How about…_flu_?"

House shakes his head and grins enigmatically. "Nope. This case is _much_ more interesting than that."

"Is it someone you know?" asks Cameron curiously. She gets to her feet and walks over to the whiteboard, tapping her fingernails on it.

"Gastroenteritis would explain the vomiting," Chase interrupts. "Do we know the patient's age?"

"Does it matter if it's someone I know?" House asks Cameron, completely ignoring Chase. "Will you treat them differently, try harder in the differential if I say yes?"

"Fine," says Cameron. "Medical history? And what tests has the ER done so far?"

"It _is_ someone you know," says Foreman, closing the journal and looking interested for the first time.

"Can we please just stick to the medicine?" asks Chase, suddenly annoyed at the three of them. They're playing games while a patient needs help. It's so typical of them, and he isn't sure how he's never noticed it before.

House mugs dramatically at Cameron, voice practically dripping sarcasm. "Fine. I'll admit it. It's my long-lost son."

Cameron makes a face. "That was juvenile and unhelpful."

"It's what I do best." House pitches the marker aimlessly over the table. Chase reaches up and catches it, tossing it back, but it sails past House seemingly unnoticed.

"Sinusitis," says Chase loudly, just to see if they'll engage with him. They don't even turn. He raises his voice further, yelling painful and unfamiliar. "Nasal drainage could cause the vomiting. Infection's responsible for the fever!"

"Seriously," says Cameron. "Why are we taking this case?" She turns the whiteboard on its wheels, and the words come into focus for the first time. No symptoms, no tests, just two words: _Robert Chase_.

Chase gets to his feet in a rage, but finds his knees suddenly giving out. The fall seems to happen in slow motion, with the others staring apathetically at him from across the room. The glass conference table grows closer inch by agonizing inch, shattering as his full weight hits it, a thousand shards of glass biting into his skin.

* * *

Cameron is crying. It's a gradual revelation in the sound of hitching breath and the tangy lemon scent of her shampoo. Chase feels a surge of relief that someone's finally noticed he isn't all right, but it dies just as quickly with the realization that he's lying in a hospital bed, though he's can't quite feel his body. He remembers the conference room and screaming, the glass table shattering under the sudden weight of his body. Or was that a dream? 

Bitterness replaces relief, heavy and aching in his limbs. They've let him fall this far, and now it's too little too late.

The first thing Chase feels as sensation returns is that everything has become unnaturally heavy, his eyelids like lead, his lungs seeming to have lost some of their elasticity, every breath more difficult than usual. There's a taste in the back of his throat that strikes him first as strange, and then as awful, and he realizes that he's vaguely nauseous as well. He coughs experimentally and forces himself to open one eyelid, grimacing at the light.

"Hey," says Cameron very gently. He has to blink a few times before the world comes into focus; when it does he finds her looking at him with the kind of tenderness he's only wished for previously. "You're in the ICU."

Chase nods at her and tries to get enough leverage out of his own body to sit up. Shame wars with anger as he looks down at his hands, wincing at the sight of an IV line in the back of his left. And it isn't like he hasn't inserted hundreds of these by now, but the moment he glimpses it in his own vein, it starts to itch unbearably. Feeling Cameron's eyes on him, he looks back up to see her regarding him with so much intensity it sends an odd tug of longing through him. Silent decision made, she propels herself out of her chair and lands on the edge of the bed, hugging him shockingly hard. Chase tenses, certain he must be nothing short of disgusting to her, but she's crying again and pulling away seems too cruel.

"You've been in a coma for two days," Cameron murmurs against his shoulder before finally pulling away. The words seem to shoot through him like an electric shock; he knows suddenly and unquestionably that the differential was a dream, memories of reality flooding back like stones in the pit of his stomach.

"How did you find me?" He thinks he can remember most of it now, and god, was she the one who found him lying in a pool of his own urine and vomit? Chase feels his face warm, and he looks away, fingers toying with a loose string at the corner of his hospital-bed-blanket.

Cameron's eyes are very big, and filled with the compassion he's used to seeing her address dying patients with. His stomach twists again, and this time it has nothing to do with his health.

"House sent Foreman to your apartment. You hadn't called in in two days, and…" She trails off and shrugs apologetically. Chase thinks this might be the worst possibility of all, and he finds himself immaturely wishing he'd stayed in the coma.

"Of course," Chase mutters bitterly. Too little, too late. It shouldn't have come to this. "House would want to know."

Cameron looks shocked. "He saved your life!"

"Oh?" He's trying to sound confident, but the more the memories come back, the faster the room seems to be spinning. He remembers collapsing in the bathroom, can name every one of his symptoms, but after four years working for House, he can't come up with a single plausible diagnosis for himself.

"What happened?" Chase asks again after a long moment, still unable to look Cameron in the eye.

She exhales slowly, then takes a long, shaking breath like she might cry again. Seconds pass, in which he can hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, suddenly obnoxiously loud. Cameron looks breathless, frozen in the abject terror he's seen her regard terminal diagnoses with.

"She couldn't tell you? Why am I not surprised." As if on cue, the door slides open and House sticks his head in. He looks at Cameron and grimaces theatrically. "You have type 1 diabetes. Which proves my theory all along." House waits a beat for dramatic tension. "Apparently you actually are still a child."

* * *

Chase may have a diagnosis, but the journey is far from over. Feedback is always appreciated! 


	3. Professionalism is Dead

NOTE: Thank you to all my reviewers so far, I really appreciate it! I'm sorry I've sucked at replying lately, I promise I'll be better about that. Also, my first commentary post is up at my LJ. It's linked in my profile. Please feel free to leave comments on my LJ using your ff.n penname. Or you can email or IM me. Whatever you want.

* * *

Chapter Three: Professionalism is Dead

"No." It's the first thing that crosses his mind, and he says it without a thought, the cautious precision with which he normally speaks dulled by sickness and drugs.

Cameron's frown deepens, and she reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek. "I know it's difficult to accept. As doctors we tend to think that we can't get sick, but it does happen. But diabetes is a manageable condition. Millions of people—"

"No," Chase interrupts again, pushing her hand away. Cameron jumps in surprise and looks up at House, and it's like some kind of awful conspiracy he's on the outside of. "It's not difficult to accept, it's impossible. I'm too old."

"Type 1 diabetes becomes increasingly uncommon after young adulthood, but it's certainly not unheard of. Apparently you're just unlucky." Cameron's voice is very gentle, and at the moment he hates her for it. He thinks her usual aloofness might be easier to take right now.

"Oh look," interjects House, "a medical oddity. Thank God we never see any of those here."

"The cut off for diagnosis is twenty five," Chase insists, ignoring them both. It's been years since he's bothered with specific facts like this; working for House has convinced him that hunches can be far more meaningful, but suddenly he's willing to stake his life on a number and some statistics. "I'm over twenty five."

"Really?" House feigns shock. "You are?"

"That's an arbitrary number based on statistical probability," says Cameron. Chase is struck momentarily by the beauty of her voice, but it only adds to his frustration. "It's not biology. It's not even medicine."

"Who diagnosed me?" Chase asks House, ignoring Cameron's hand on his arm. There's a part of him that wants so desperately to be comforted, but he's sick at the thought of letting her know and House is in the room besides.

"You were brought into the ER with diabetic ketoacidosis and a severe sinus infection," says Cameron, not giving House a chance to answer. He looks slightly disappointed, and Chase wonders what choice remark he might have had ready. "They made the diagnosis. It's Saturday, so the full endocrinology staff isn't here now, but you were seen by the endocrinologist on call when you were admitted. You'll be seen by a diabetes specialist to set up a regimen as soon as you're released from the ICU. For now you've been put on an insulin drip, fluids to rehydrate you, and antibiotics for the infection."

"When am I going to be moved out of the ICU?" Chase interrupts before she can launch back into sympathetic platitudes. He remembers vividly working here late into countless nights, hiding from House when he needed a boost of confidence. He can picture treating patients in this bed, and suddenly he can't stand the thought of being one of them.

"Maybe tomorrow," says Cameron. She moves to brush his hair off his face, and Chase catches her wrist, embarrassment prickling up and down his skin like a tangible measure of House's bemused gaze.

"So it was a quick diagnosis," Chase argues, his mind gradually clearing, the familiar thought process of a differential oddly comforting despite the circumstances. Cameron looks at him sharply and he realizes he's changed the subject without segue. "The ER could have screwed up my tests."

Cameron is already shaking her head; House seems content to lurk in a corner and watch the exchange for a moment. Chase is torn between being angry at the silent restraint that comes with his presence and grateful for the deterrent, because he's certain that without it he'd have already said something worthy of regret.

"Diabetic ketoacidosis can only be caused by a lack of insulin. Your body can't absorb nutrients, and it starts to metabolize itself." Cameron is speaking very slowly, and it's all he can do not to protest being treated like a regular patient. He knows all of this, knows it _better_ than she does, because what she's saying can't possibly be right. "Ketone bodies are released into the blood stream, and the pH of your blood drops. It literally becomes acidic."

"So that doesn't mean I'm diabetic," Chase protests. The logical part of his brain knows he's being irrational, but every diagnostic instinct he's developed over the past four years is screaming that there must be another explanation. "Insulin deficit can have a variety of causes."

"And the others are almost certainly much worse," says Cameron. Her voice is almost plaintive now, and Chase wonders with another twinge of anger just why she cares whether or not he's ready to blindly accept a diagnosis.

"Would you at least review my file?" Chase asks, turning his attention toward House. The request seems to sap any remaining energy from him, leaving him aching with shame, but it seems suddenly as though his life depends on it. "Run a differential."

"You'd rather have pancreatic cancer than diabetes?" House narrows his eyes, looking interested. Chase can practically see his mind working, starting to evaluate various courses of action. "Cool."

"You'll do it?" asks Chase, feeling a wave of exhaustion coupled with relief. House will find another answer; House has to find another answer, because in his world the obvious answer is never the right one.

"Sure," says House indulgently. Chase can't decide whether he's mocking. "Not like we've got any _real_ patients to treat. Cameron, page Foreman and tell him to get off his ass. We've got _work_ to do."

Cameron gets to her feet quickly and marches over to House with the kind of resolution that usually means a debate about ethics.

"We need to talk," she says to House, and cocks her head at the door to the ICU.

House looks comically at Chase and shakes his head. "She wants to talk. It'd be rude to do it here, since it's obviously about you. We'll be right back."

House uses his cane to poke Cameron in the back, herding her into a corner next to an empty bed. Chase closes his eyes, the first wave of adrenaline starting to fade. Everything hurts, and his head feels like it's filled with thick liquid, a veil of fog between him and the rest of the world. He shifts in the bed, trying to get back to sleep, but it's like he's suddenly hyper-aware of every part of his body. Worse, House and Cameron have only moved a few feet away, and he can't help focusing on their words though everything is terribly blurred.

"Don't do this," Cameron snaps. "You're not helping anyone."

"He wants a diagnosis," says House, obviously enjoying the situation. "Who am I to deny him the same attention we give any other patient?"

"No, he needs to accept the diagnosis he already has!" Cameron explodes. "Listen to him! He's not even making sense. Irritability is often a symptom of abnormal blood sugar. Diabetes is a manageable condition, it's not the end of his life. He _almost died_; he's just come out of a coma. He's in denial and you're enabling him."

"And how do you suggest I convince him otherwise?" asks House.

"Don't indulge him. He'll listen to you." Cameron is practically yelling now, her voice loud above the background noise of the ICU.

"That's cruel and unfeeling," says House, sounding mock-scandalized.

Chase rolls onto his back and tries not to listen, but his hearing seems suddenly amplified. He wants to scream at them that his mind is functioning perfectly. But House hasn't protested, and there's a niggling sense of doubt starting to creep up in Chase's stomach. He can't remember ever having wanted to yell at them before, even after everything. Is this really a normal reaction? And how would he even know?

"It's how you would treat any other patient," insists Cameron. "He has diabetes. He needs to accept it. Go tell him you're not going to run a differential."

Chase loses track of their words, his mind racing. The rational part of his mind is saying that he ought to simply listen to them, get back to sleep; maybe it'll all make sense in the morning. The darkness is encroaching again, his stomach churning suddenly, chills running over his skin. And then House's cane is being jabbed into his side, the lights too bright. Foreman is with them, and Chase can't tell how much time has gone by, but Cameron is smiling comfortingly.

"You have type 1 diabetes," House repeats exactly the same as before, and Chase finds himself thinking suddenly that their earlier conversation could have been a dream. "Cameron thinks you need to deal with it." And then he's gone, the weight of his words hanging there in the air like storm clouds.

"We're here for you," offers Cameron gently. Chase glares at her, unable to say anything past the lump that's suddenly sprung up in his throat.

"You'll be okay with this," says Foreman, as if he's making the statement about himself.

"Foreman," says Cameron warningly, but she seems subdued enough to avoid another full-blown argument.

Chase nods wordlessly, too exhausted and overwhelmed to protest. The room is starting to go out of focus again, and for just a moment he wonders whether House has managed to slip him some kind of sedative. But that's paranoia; he's treated enough coma patients to know that this is a normal part of the healing process.

Foreman looks meaningfully at Cameron. "The last thing this department needs is more drama. Professionalism is dead."

Chase rolls onto his side and shoves the thin pillow over his head, finally giving in to exhaustion.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! 


	4. Any Other Patient

NOTES: Second commentary is up at my LJ; follow the link in my profile. For more detailed information on diabetes, please go there. I'm not going to be explaining everything at once, because it's a gradual process throughout the fic. However, if you have questions about anything, as always feel free to ask. Now that I'm back in school, updates will be further between, but the chapters are also getting longer to compensate. Never fear, I haven't forgotten you.

* * *

Chapter Four: Any Other Patient

Being in a private room is like being stuck behind a giant mirror. There are blinds, sure, but the walls are glass and the spaces between the tan plastic slats are big enough to give a good view. People stop from time to time. Kids, mostly, pulling away from the hands of parents who have been waylaid by various members of the hospital staff. They put their noses up to the glass and stare and stare, but Chase knows all they are seeing is themselves, laid out in his hospital bed, attached to the IV line in the back of his hand. He almost misses the naked openness of the ICU.

By late morning there's a group of children standing at the glass. The youngest two are twins, and four others look like siblings. The remaining three must be friends who are along for the ride, and Chase finds himself wondering what has brought this entire family here, and how the parents have become so distracted. For a moment he wishes he could talk to them through the glass; the twins look like they've been crying, and the reflexive need to help tugs at Chase's stomach. But then he thinks about what they're actually doing, standing on the outside of an invisible barrier which he can no longer cross, staring and oblivious to the fact that he has just spent the past three weeks being dragged over. Resentment sweeps through him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, because it is suddenly so easy to hate the world.

"Are you awake?" It's Cameron's voice, sympathetic, but loud enough that the answer doesn't really matter anymore. Chase forces his eyes open, because if he doesn't, he knows she'll start trying to wake him, claiming protocol.

"When am I getting discharged?" he asks her by way of greeting, because no one but the constant parade of questionably-intentioned nurses has been to visit since his move from the ICU. He wants to ask her whether they have a case, if that's the reason, but he clenches his jaw shut.

"In a few days. You're going to a diabetes management class in a few minutes," says Cameron, sitting on the edge of the bed. Chase flinches and inches toward the opposite side. He wants to be angry with her, wants to resent her for stopping the differential, but all he feels is exhaustion. Even pulling the blankets up seems impossibly hard, and he considers it for several uncomfortable moments before forcing his arms to move.

"Why?" It sounds disgustingly cold and self-indulgent, but he can hear the sympathy in her voice, and the last thing he wants is for anyone to pity him. It's the most insincere emotion he's ever seen, and he wishes now, ironically, that they would all just go back to ignoring him. This is not the way he needs to be noticed. The ache of anger starts in his chest. "I know enough. Give me a prescription and send me home."

Cameron frowns. "Life with diabetes requires constant and tight control of your blood sugars. It's complicated. You need to be trained." It sounds like information parroted directly from a pamphlet, and Chase wonders how much reading she's been doing since his diagnosis. She softens a little, and Chase feels the knot of anger in his gut tighten. "And besides, Cuddy pulled some strings to get the start of the class moved to today so you could go home sooner." She reaches for his left hand to inspect the IV catheter, and Chase jerks away roughly.

"I don't need special treatment," he sneers, shocked at the harshness of his own voice. The thought of Cuddy working on his behalf sends a wave of shame through him. "Especially not from you. You've done enough damage."

"Fine." Cameron looks truly hurt, and it only adds to the growing resentment Chase feels toward her. He wants to tell her it isn't her place, that she has no right to be upset, but that's blatantly unprofessional, and he keeps his mouth shut.

"Then give me your hand and let me test your blood sugar like any other patient," she snaps. "That IV has to come out before you go to class."

He notices suddenly the black wallet-like case of a glucometer in her lap; he's been too caught up avoiding her gaze to see it before. Chase glares at her for a long moment, considering insisting that he do the test himself, but that will probably earn a lecture on circular logic. Finally, Chase holds out his hand and stares at the ceiling.

The scrape of plastic and the snap of the spring as she loads the lancing pen sound abnormally loud, and Chase suddenly wishes he could see what she's doing. He keeps his eyes stubbornly on the tiles above his head, looking for abnormalities. The split-second bite of the needle comes as a surprise, and he draws in a breath as the test strip is pressed against his skin. The softness of a cotton ball follows, and Chase pulls his hand away quickly. His ego hurts far worse than the break in his skin, but the lingering sting leaves a cloud of frustration clinging to him.

"Good," says Cameron a few seconds later, and Chase hears the sounds of her zipping up the case. He wants to ask her what the reading is, but she isn't about to volunteer it, and refusing to ask is part of the game. "Give me your other hand; I need to remove the IV."

Chase lays his left hand on top of the sheet, but doesn't move any farther. This whole thing is childish, but also oddly satisfying. Cameron rips the tape off more quickly than necessary, and Chase flinches as it pulls against his skin. As soon as she's finished, he jerks his left hand away and covers the back of it with his right, feeling oddly raw.

"All done," says Cameron coolly. "Class is upstairs in room 307." She turns and leaves without so much as another glance.

* * *

Standing upright brings back the sensation of odd weight in his limbs, and it takes Chase a good ten minutes to find his bearings in the hospital and remember how to get upstairs. For a moment a stab of panic goes through him at the possibility that he's suffered actual serious brain damage from the coma. But it was only once, he tells himself, and that kind of complications take time. It's three minutes past the appointed start when he finally enters the conference room. 

There's only one other family present, a man and a woman dressed in sharp business attire, and their very sick-looking son. The boy has curly brown hair and dark rings under his eyes, and he's clutching a Superman action figure in the hand unmarred by an IV catheter. The father has a Palm Pilot out on the desktop, and he doesn't look up. Chase takes a seat in the back right corner of the room, hoping the others won't try to talk to him.

"Is it too much to ask for anything in this place to start on time?" The voice from the doorway is loud and melodramatic, and Chase jerks his head up to see House standing there.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, hoping his voice sounds stronger outside of his head.

House ignores the question and turns toward the other family, moving to cordially shake their hands. Chase watches, surprised.

"I'm Greg House," he says in an uncharacteristically warm voice. He cocks his head in Chase's direction. "That's my son."

Chase opens his mouth to protest, but then immediately closes it again as a woman with a rolling cart enters and stops to glare at the whole room, obviously the diabetes educator in charge.

"Dr. House, what are you doing here?" she snaps.

House looks back at the family and shrugs in mock apology, all traces of friendliness gone. "Okay, not really. Actually he's my employee." House turns to face the educator, face suddenly alight with false curiosity. "But I want to learn all about diabetes so that I can accommodate him as well as possible."

The educator looks doubtful, but she shakes her head and makes her way needlessly to the front of the room. House takes a seat next to the family, and looks eagerly at the educator. Ready to entertain, no doubt, thinks Chase. He lets his head drop into his hands and takes a long breath.

"Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune disease," says the educator cheerily. She sounds like an announcer on a nature program, not the appointed bearer of bad news. Chase wonders whether the little boy is as bothered by the whole thing as he is. "Insulin is a hormone which is produced by special cells in the pancreas. It's what allows nutrients to cross the cell membranes and be used by your body as energy."

She pauses and passes out a set of colorful pamphlets. Chase takes his and sets them on the floor under his chair. The presentation is obviously geared toward children and their families, and he has to force himself not to think of the way Cameron would explain all of this.

"In people with type 1 diabetes," the educator continues, gesturing to one of the figures on the sheet, "the body gets confused. While it's trying to fight off an illness, it kills the insulin producing cells instead. That means patients with type 1 don't naturally produce any insulin at all."

"And their bodies eat themselves," says House ominously. The little boy shoots him a terrified look, and both parents flinch.

"Yes, Dr. House," says the educator with obvious chagrin. "In the absence of insulin, the body begins to break down its own tissues. All of that unused sugar builds up in the blood. That's why you get so sick."

The little boy starts to cry, and his father hugs him. Chase rakes a hand through his hair and closes his eyes, resisting the urge to simply get up and leave.

"Now, I want to stress the fact that it _is_ possible to lead a healthy and normal life with diabetes," says the educator, ignoring the meltdown her words are causing. "But in order to do that, you're going to need to monitor your blood sugars carefully. You're also going to need to calculate and take insulin by injection or by pump. You'll be given that choice at the end of this session."

She keeps talking, but the words start to fade. The parents ask questions and the little boy cries harder. House interjects the occasional inappropriate comment. Chase stares at the wall and tries not to see the image of his future slowly being painted there.

* * *

Feedback is greatly appreciated! 


	5. Suspended Animation

NOTES: Sorry it's been so long. School owns my soul. This is sort of the beginning of a new section of the fic, hence the quote. Commentary is up here at my LJ and linked in my profile.

Chapter Five: Suspended Animation

_"Sometimes it feels like I still don't really fit anywhere…It's like I'm waiting for something that other people aren't waiting for. __Waiting for something to go wrong."__ – __Andie__ Dominick, __Needles: A Memoir of Growing Up with Diabetes_

Ten days pass in a vacuum. Three more diabetes education classes. Meetings with representatives from the insulin pump manufacturing companies, and then choosing one, and then still more training. Daily plans and calculation plans and contingency plans until Chase is dreaming about needles and can barely tell up from down, he feels so thoroughly saturated with new information.

He wonders as the final nurse appears with a wheelchair whether this is how his patients feel. It's always tied up so neatly on the Diagnostics side of things—an answer and a treatment from the mess of scribbles on a whiteboard, the pages upon pages of records and results.

But it's still all chaos to him as he sits heavily in the wheelchair and tells the nurse that no, he doesn't have a ride waiting, but a cab will be fine. The second he gets back to his apartment, Chase curls up under the fresh sheets that someone's put on his bed, and falls into a heavy sleep.

On Friday afternoon, he's surprised by a knock on the door and answers it to find Cameron standing on his doorstep with flowers and a glowering Foreman. Chase instantly recoils, biting back a reflex to simply slam the door in their faces. He thinks he might be pleased to see them, except he's in pajamas, and all he can think is that someone's cleaned up the vomit in the bathroom, gotten rid of the rug, and he's certain one of them has to be responsible.

"Hey," says Cameron stepping forward and through the door like she knows he's stopped just short of closing it again. Her voice is warm, and her eyes dart shyly to the side as she hands him the flowers, like they haven't just been fighting. Like she hasn't just told him that she never wants to care.

Chase takes the flowers and steps back to let Foreman in, feeling oddly ashamed of the whole thing. Attention is what he's wanted all along, but now he remembers snapping at Cameron in the hospital and wishes that she wasn't here. It's been ten days of struggling, of living and breathing and drowning in things he doesn't know how to do. Taking sympathy is just one more thing he was no experience with.

"What are you doing here?" he manages finally, and then feels guilty for the harshness of that question. If only they weren't here, he thinks, he wouldn't be adding to the embarrassment he's already built up over the past two weeks. And maybe he could sleep more.

But Cameron seems nonplussed, and Foreman doesn't seem to have heard. "You stopped answering the phone again," she says. "We were worried about you."

"She even asked me to come along in case we had to drag your ass back to the emergency room," Foreman adds, the quirk of his eyebrows saying that it's supposed to be a joke, but it falls flat and sour. Cameron shoots him a disapproving look.

"I'm fine," says Chase tightly. They aren't leaving, and he's suddenly very aware of the fact that he hasn't done much to clean his apartment over the past week and a half. An assortment of rumpled blankets are spread out on his couch, half a dozen books strewn across the table. Plus the new assortment of medical supplies on the counter that he hasn't been keeping as neat as he should. He watches as Cameron's eyes flick disapprovingly over that part, but she doesn't say anything.

"Good," says Foreman. "It's good that you're fine." He looks at Cameron expectantly, like maybe they can leave now, but she doesn't seem ready to budge yet. Chase feels an unexpected sense of companionship in the lost expression on Foreman's face. Neither one of them knows how to do this.

"Are you doing everything that you should?" asks Cameron, still eyeing the various supplies spread out on the counter. The glucometer case is unzipped, used test strips in a pile beside it, darkened by little spots of dried blood. Various pamphlets are stacked, unread, the logbooks for food and insulin glaringly blank.

"I'm not an idiot," Chase snaps, then feels bad because he has to admit that he's only angry because she's right. He sighs heavily and forces himself to meet her eyes. "It's just going to take time."

Cameron nods, softening, then carefully takes the flowers back out of Chase's hands, using them to gesture at him and Foreman. "Sit."

"What?" asks Foreman, sounding surprised. Chase wonders what Cameron has told him about the purpose and duration of their trip here, because he doesn't seem to have been expecting to stay.

"You two sit," she says firmly, still waving the flowers subconsciously in their direction. "I'm going to find something to put these in."

"I can—" Chase starts, not keen on the idea of her digging through his kitchen cupboards, but he breaks off when Foreman shakes his head.

"Don't, man." Foreman lifts one of the blankets with two fingers like it's a dead animal, and then sits on the edge of the couch, looking stiff and overly formal. "You know it's easier to just go along with her."

Chase sighs helplessly and sits on the other end of the couch, pulling the blankets into his lap as he watches Cameron extract an old beer mug from the back of one of his closets. He doesn't ask how she knows that it's the nearest to a vase he actually owns. The implications behind that aren't something he wants to so much as consider in front of Foreman.

"Talk," says Cameron as she fills the mug with water from the sink.

"Uh," says Chase, still watching uncertainly as she clips the stems and arranges the flowers in the mug. They look bright and incongruous in the low light of his kitchen. "What do you want us to talk about?"

Cameron looks surprised. "You've been cooped up by yourself in various places for nearly a month! You've just been diagnosed with a life-changing illness. You must have things you need to talk about!"

"Right," says Chase awkwardly. Absolutely nothing comes to mind, and even if something did, there is no way he would mention it now. Turning to Foreman, he clears his throat. "So, how's work?"

Foreman shrugs. "It's work."

Accepting this answer, Chase nods and looks back at Cameron, who has finished with the flowers and begun straightening up the mess on the counter. He tenses, wanting to tell her to stop, that he can take care of himself, but that will just start another argument, and he already feels like he ought to apologize for the way he treated her in the hospital.

"New cases?" Chase asks, when Cameron looks expectantly at them again.

"Some idiot nearly killed both his kids with a penis pumper," says Foreman, like it's the most boring thing he's ever heard.

"Foreman!" Cameron chastises, her head halfway inside the refrigerator. She's started prowling the cupboards again, checking his food supplies, Chase supposes.

"What?" asks Chase, surprised by both of their reactions, and eager to talk about a case that isn't his own.

"He was using a male enhancement cream to keep up with his girlfriend, and didn't realize that his sweat was giving his kids an overdose of testosterone in the process," Cameron explains patiently. She sounds like she actually has sympathy for the man, and Chase finds himself freshly confused by her.

"Oh," he says stupidly. But what else is there to say, really? Suddenly he can't picture them working this case, and he wonders whether things have changed in the month that he's been gone. He remembers the coma dream of the whiteboard and the breaking glass, and thinks that maybe he won't fit anymore when he returns to work. But then Cameron is saying something, and he has to shake himself to focus on her words.

"What?"

"I asked if you have everything you need," Cameron repeats, looking concerned.

"Oh," says Chase again. "Yeah. And I can still drive, Cameron." There's another moment of awkward silence, and Chase clears his throat again. "But thank you."

For nearly a whole minute no one says anything, and Chase realizes that the expectant look Foreman is giving Cameron must mirror the one on his own face. Finally, she sighs and shakes her head.

"All right, we'll leave you alone."

Foreman gets eagerly to his feet, then pauses and seems to think better of it. Turning back, he extends a stiff hand toward Chase, looking oddly formal again. Chase looks at the floor as he takes it for a moment and shakes.

"Good to see you," says Foreman, sounding almost friendly for a moment. Then, "Try not to wallow too much."

"Right," says Chase, because there isn't really a good reply to that. Foreman nods and heads out the door, leaving it open behind him.

"Wait," says Chase as Cameron turns to leave. It's a sick curiosity, but he has to know. "Did you—" And yet he still can't bring himself to actually say it. God, how many patients has he helped her clean up after? But this is different.

Cameron softens, obviously realizing his intent. "I'm sorry I couldn't save the rug," she says simply. "It was pretty."

Chase nods and then shrugs and still can't come up with anything to say. He isn't used to having anyone care even to this extent, though he's fairly certain it isn't much above human decency. He jumps in surprise as Cameron takes his left hand in both of hers, running her thumb over the fading bruise from his IV. Chase stares at the floor and tries not to move, all too aware of the compassion in her eyes.

"I'll see you at work on Monday," she says simply, and follows Foreman out the door.


	6. Balance

NOTES: Sorry for the long time between updates, again. Short commentary up at my LJ. The link is available on my profile. Feedback is much appreciated, and questions are always welcome.

Chapter Six: Balance

When he wakes up on Sunday morning, Chase resolves not to be caught looking like a wreck again. If he's learned anything growing up, it's that the biggest troubles are the ones best kept well-hidden. He's spent the better part of his life covering up his parents' messes; there should be no excuse now for his seeming inability to mask his own.

He's been mistaken all along, he decides, as he stares up at his bedroom ceiling. He wanted attention, wanted them to notice him. But he never wants people to pity him, and that seems to be the only thing he's gained. He's still sick, still alone, still unable to do anything but hide or fight. There's a spider crawling along the popcorn in the corner of the ceiling, spinning a tiny little cobweb that will collect dust later. Chase thinks he ought to get up and squish it, but he doesn't have the heart.

Hauling himself out of bed has become a new chore in and of itself. The tiny insulin pump which is now his constant lifeline is clumsy and constantly in the way. It's no bigger than a second cell phone, but somehow its presence seems to have thrown everything out of balance. Chase sits up slowly, by now accustomed to the fact that the four foot tubing attaching the pump to his body has gotten tangled in the sheets. The tubing is nearly invisible against the white sheets of his bed, and it takes him a few minutes to trace it back to the pump, which has fallen over the edge and gotten buried under the pool of blankets on the floor.

He glances up at the spider as he finally frees the pump and gets to his feet. The spider is airborne now, swaying on an invisible thread of silk.

The glucometer on the kitchen counter catches Chase's eye as he makes his way out to the kitchen, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that he's neglected to check his blood sugar since the previous morning. The bite of the tiny needle against his finger echoes the voices of chastisement in his brain as he shoves a test strip into the meter and watches it count down. The number is blessedly close to normal, and Chase exhales a breath he hadn't realized he was holding at this newest bullet dodged. Still, it's nothing more than dumb luck, and he resolves to change that.

Good control is important, everyone keeps repeating. For the first time, Chase finds himself forced to agree with them, because if he doesn't maintain good control, everyone will notice. That possibility is unacceptable. The flowers from Cameron seem to be looking disapprovingly at him from their makeshift vase on the counter. Chase shakes his head at them, then moves into the kitchen to find something for breakfast.

Eating is a chore now, a game of give and take. The pamphlets stress that balance is important, that any food can be worked into a diabetes regimen with moderation and the proper carbohydrate counting skills. But that means learning another new thing, carrying around the large exchange book the hospital dietician gave him. Too conspicuous. And too exhausting. So instead he settles on a stale granola bar, which has been hidden at the back of his closet for at least a month. It's not satisfying, but it is well-labeled, and he's already memorized the dose of insulin for the repulsive things.

As he goes to throw the wrapper into the trash, several crumbs escape, drawing his attention to the dark rug which covers the floor in front of the sink. It's littered with crumbs and little pieces of paper from envelopes he's opened recently. The apartment is so out of order from weeks of sickness and depression that he hardly knows where to start with cleaning.

As a rule, Chase doesn't let other people inside his home, not even Cameron and not even over the course of the past few months. That she's seen it now, in his absence and in its unusual state of disrepair, feels oddly like a violation. He's imagined bringing her here, certainly, but never under these circumstances.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Chase starts on the nearest task at hand. Going into the living room, he grabs the pile of blankets on the couch and shakes them over the floor, disgusted at the number of crumbs and the amount of dust that makes a little cloud in the air. He takes the blankets into the laundry room and piles them into the washer, starting it before thinking about the number of other things that need to be washed. Letting the lid slam, Chase grabs a laundry basket and heads into the bedroom, scooping up the dirty clothes which litter nearly every horizontal surface. More food crumbs fall to the floor, along with a plethora of crumpled tissues.

The mess disgusts him. He's developed an immunity to other people's shameful acts, to vomit and broken bottles and soiled bedclothes. He doesn't mind cleaning up anymore. But the idea that someone else has had to clean up _his_ mess, that he's even let it get this bad makes his stomach turn. Dropping the laundry basket in front of the running washer, Chase rushes to find a dust rag, jumping and knocking over the entire box of cleaning supplies when the doorbell rings.

There's only one person it could possibly be, and that thought makes his heart race as he goes to answer the door. He's still in pajamas, hasn't showered yet, and now the apartment looks even worse than it did before.

"Good morning," says Cameron, when he opens the door. She's wearing jeans and a red tanktop, and looks like he imagines she might have had she ever let him take her on a real date. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Chase stammers, taking a step out the door, then thinking better of it when he remembers that he isn't dressed. "But—you can't come in."

Cameron looks vaguely amused by his statement. "What, some secret illicit happenings I have no concept of?"

"Yeah—no—I'm cleaning," he manages at last, keeping his gaze on the faded doormat. He can't possibly explain why that's so intensely private, but it is.

"I can help," Cameron offers, shifting her grip on her purse.

"No," Chase answers immediately again, then feels bad. She must think he's being terribly rude. "Sorry. You've done enough."

"Okay," says Cameron, eyeing him like maybe he's finally snapped. She doesn't say anything, though. "Well, I'm going grocery shopping. I thought you might want to come with me, since I'm pretty sure you must be down to bread ends and canned tuna fish by now."

"I'm fine." But all he has left is those damned granola bars and half a gallon of orange juice that must have started to turn by now. Sighing, Chase steps back and lets her past him into the apartment, deciding that she's already seen the worst of it anyway.

Cameron walks straight over to the couch and takes a seat on it, ignoring the crumpled tissues which are piled at the far end. Chase considers reminding her that he's still recovering from the sinus infection which started all this so she won't assume that he's been crying, but that's a lie, and more disgusting than her assumptions besides.

"Come on," she coaxes. "Go get dressed."

"I have to shower," Chase says quietly, keeping his gaze on the wall and half hoping that she'll leave.

But she just shrugs. "So go. I'll wait."

Chase glances at her over his shoulder as he hurries toward the bedroom, narrowly avoiding running into the doorframe. Most of his clothes are still in the basket in front of the washer, so he settles on a dress shirt and jeans. The water of the shower feels strangely too hot, then too cold, and his own body looks foreign to him. He's lost enough weight to see bones in places he'd never considered them before, and there are the beginnings of new tiny scars from the insulin pump insertions to match the IV marks on his arms.

By the time he's finished showering and dressing, he's almost certain that Cameron will be angry with him for taking so long, but she's sitting serenely on the couch, reading one of the pamphlets from the hospital. For a moment he considers telling her not to read it, to stay as far away from this world as she possibly can. But she won't listen to him, he knows. She never has.

"So," he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "We can—go now."

Cameron puts the pamphlet back on the counter and leads the way to her car without another word.

It's strange being in the supermarket with her. He's spent nearly four years working with her now, treated patients alongside her, and been to their homes with her. He's been to her apartment, and had sex with her in various inappropriate locations throughout the hospital. But it's strangely domestic being here now, watching her examine every set of bananas on the display to find the ones least bruised. He feels like he almost doesn't recognize her.

"Are you going to get any fruit?" she asks, when she's finally decided on a bunch of bananas which are still tinged green. She moves on to the nearby apples as she waits for a reply.

"I don't think so," Chase answers at last, glancing around the produce department. The whole store makes him feel lost today, the many colors and symbols on packaging nearly sensory overload. He's been doing grocery shopping since high school and has never thought twice about it, but suddenly the many decisions make him dizzy. It's not enough anymore to choose whatever looks the best, or is the cheapest. Now he has to consider whether he'll be able to figure out an insulin dose, and whether or not eating the food is a good idea in the first place.

"Fruit is good," says Cameron, frowning.

"But it's not labeled," Chase argues, looking at the ground. He knows he's expected to learn to estimate doses for things which aren't labeled. There was a class on it, in fact, but he can't remember any of the values now.

"So, look it up." Cameron ties off a bag containing four carefully selected apples.

"Think I'll just stick with this for now." Chase looks dejectedly at his basket, which is filled with carefully selected frozen dinners and cans of soup, complete with carbohydrate values printed on them.

"Chase…" Cameron sighs. "You can't eat that forever. You can't even eat that all week. At least buy some vegetables."

"This is fine," Chase insists, then sighs. It isn't like he's ever been particularly good at cooking, but he's had to do it long enough to be decent. Microwave meals are generally reserved for nights when he gets home so late that it's difficult to even stay awake the requisite three minutes for the food to defrost.

"The peaches look good," says Cameron casually, and suddenly he feels like he's a patient she's trying to persuade into treatment or a test. And really he is, he realizes, or else she wouldn't be here. She's started paying attention because he's someone she can take care of now, he tells himself over and over again. There is absolutely no reason why the realization should continually surprise him. Nothing she does or says or feels toward him will ever be real.

"Yeah, they do," Chase concedes, resigning himself to playing the part. He selects five peaches without inspection, knotting the plastic produce bag so tightly it turns his fingertips white. "What else?"

Cameron glances at the list she's made for herself. "Some kind of vegetables. You could get one of those bags of salad mixes. That's supposed to be good for you for snacks."

She's obviously been reading the pamphlet on diet, and Chase has to force himself not to comment. The rest of the trip becomes a lesson in autopilot, small talk and compliance coming easy the way they always have when he can't afford to care. Cameron seems pleased, though, or at least doesn't question the sincerity of his answers.

As soon as she leaves him at his apartment and drives away, Chase dumps the contents of nearly all the grocery bags straight into the trash.


	7. Routine

NOTES: No commentary this time. Getting there, I promise. Look, a not-ridiculously-long-time in between updates! Sorry for the repost. Apparently I made too many assumptions about people's ability to read my mind. p Hopefully any confusion has been clarified now. In case anyone is still confused, this is a partial AU of the end of Season Three. Meaning it spins off after Airborne, and some things parallel canon, and some things don't.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Routine

The world has a new identity, a new sound and smell and feel and logic to it. It's like Chase is trapped in his own dimension, hopeless of ever explaining this new reality to those outside of it. Nothing is like the textbooks or the pamphlets says; once he starts thinking about it, he's struck by how utterly inadequate the descriptions he's received in medical school are. He wonders how many other patients they've overlooked, how many assumptions they've made.

At 5:45 the alarm clock goes off, making Chase jump and nearly fall out of the bed. In less than a month's time, his routine has changed drastically enough that the once familiar and comforting sound seems alien and threatening. He nearly falls out of bed, forgetting that the pump has gotten tangled in the bed sheets until he feels the sharp pain of the tubing pulling on the site. It's more of a shock than anything else and he freezes, backtracking until the tension is released and the pain recedes. The alarm clock continues on, an urgent siren call in the background as he fishes the pump out from under the pile of blankets it's wound around during the night. Finally he makes it over to his desk, and the silence in the room is deafening now that the alarm clock's gone quiet.

He stands rooted to the spot for a full minute before thinking to turn on the desk lamp next to the clock, making the room a swimming margarine-colored mass before his sleep-clouded eyes. Gingerly, Chase lifts one cuff of the boxer shorts he's been wearing to sleep in, examining the pump site in his thigh which is now giving off little unhappy twinges of pain. It doesn't look damaged; the skin is slightly red, but the cannula is still in place, and the tape doesn't look misshapen. Still, it's hard to tell whether there's been any harm done under the skin, and he can't afford to have any glitches today. Not in front of the others. Not again. That would be unthinkable.

Deciding to play it safe, Chase grabs the box of new infusion sites from the desk and takes one out, along with an alcohol wipe and the inserter. The packaging for the site is like any piece of medical supplies, and he peels back the sterile paper, shaking the set into his palm. The inserter is spring-loaded, and the insertion set itself feels fragile and clumsy in his hands as he works it into the groove. He's spent most of his career inserting IV infusion sets, but the spring-loaded inserter is different. It's supposed to make the pump set easier to insert, shooting the needle into the skin at just the right angle with the push of a button.

Still, it feels clumsy in his hand as he swipes the skin of his thigh with alcohol and holds the inserter in place. The spring sends the needle through the skin with a little pop noise, accompanied a few seconds later by a sharp sting. By the time he's had a chance to register pain, he's already removed the inserter, and is halfway finished pulling the needle out. When that's done, he takes half a second to smooth the dressing on the site, then stands in silence, listening to his own heartbeat. Telling himself he's being ridiculous, that this is just a new part of his life, like doing laundry, or ironing his work shirts. Closing the box of supplies again, he resolves not to dwell on it and turns on the rest of the lights to get dressed.

It isn't quite seven when Chase arrives, and the hospital still has the unnatural quiet that it takes on during the night. There's no one in the atrium, the signs which are put out at the information desk after business hours politely announcing a set of numbers which guests may call for various services. He's been here in the quiet many times before, but it's usually leaving after a night working a case, not coming into the unknown.

Chase makes his way to the elevator as quickly as possible, keeping his eyes on the tiled floor. The sound of his footsteps echoes off the walls of the empty room like the noises of a phantom crowd, and his heart beats faster. He isn't entirely sure what he's afraid of; it isn't like anyone outside of Diagnostics knows him well enough to be aware of what's happened or care. Still, the elevator feels like a sanctuary when it finally comes, the doors enclosing him securely inside and alone. His familiar messenger bag feels oddly heavy on his shoulder, as though the few ounces of medical supplies are much different from the keys and medical journals and paperwork he usually keeps in it.

There's a light on in the Diagnostics office when he arrives, and Chase freezes momentarily outside the doors, panicking that someone's stayed late with a case. But then he reminds himself that Cameron spent much of the previous day grocery shopping with him, which means that there isn't a case, or she would unquestionably have been at work. Taking a breath, he pushes the door open and steps inside, releasing it slowly when nothing happens. The light is coming from the lamp on House's desk, but the door is locked and there's nobody inside. It must have been left on all weekend, he thinks, and the habitual carelessness when it comes to everyday tasks is almost a comfort.

It's still dark outside, and Chase doesn't bother to turn on any of the lights in the conference room. Slipping the bag off his shoulder and onto one of the chairs, he sits beside it and looks around the room. It's almost surreal being back, seeing the first concrete evidence that the glass table isn't broken, that his name on the whiteboard was truly only a dream. Someone's left coffee in the bottom of the pot, and the paperwork from the previous week's last case is spread out on the other side of the table. Chase pulls the folder over and starts reading, feeling suddenly like it's very important to know what's happened in his absence.

By the time he's finished, the sun is up outside, and the halls are beginning to come alive with the first morning shift change. The door to the office swings open behind him, and Chase jumps as Cameron and Foreman walk in arguing.

"It was an unnecessary risk. He should have waited for the test results before starting treatment."

"House never waits for test results," Cameron interrupts, with that blind confidence that's made Chase both admire and hate her for the past three and a half years. "And how many times has he been right? She didn't die over the weekend. She got better. I hear she's going home today."

"That's still no excuse for starting a dangerous treatment without a concrete diagnosis! We could have killed her!" Foreman throws his bag down in the corner like being rough with it will somehow reinforce his argument. Chase glances down at the chart he's just been reading to confirm that they're talking about the same case, and feels for a second like he really is invisible when Foreman walks straight by him to wash out the coffee pot.

"And we could have killed her by waiting too long for a concrete diagnosis, too," Cameron finishes, then changes tack abruptly as she comes up to stand beside Chase's chair.

"Um." Chase swallows as he looks up at her, trying to think of anything to say. In the corner, Foreman's turned around to watch them, coffee pot wet and dripping in his hands. "Hi."

"Hey," Cameron beams, bending over to hug him awkwardly, though the chair's in the way, and her bag swings over her shoulder to hit him in the leg. Still, he's reminded for a moment of Foreman coming back to work after his scare, and the intense jealousy he'd felt at Cameron's obvious affection. Chase pats her stiffly on the back, and she kisses him quickly on the cheek before pulling away. Foreman nods briefly, then goes back to making coffee.

"We have a new case," Cameron announces, handing around copies of the chart. "Cuddy gave it to me on the way in. College sophomore, started coughing blood at a karate lesson."

"House agreed to take this case?" Foreman asks, still paying more attention to the coffee than the file. After all, House most likely won't be in for another hour at least.

"Why not?" Cameron pulls out the chair next to Chase's and sits down, neatly opening her copy of the chart in front of her. Chase glances over her shoulder, then spreads out his own, feeling out of place and uncertain of even such a simple gesture. It isn't like he's never sat at the table with them before, but suddenly he feels like they are close enough to scrutinize his every move.

"Karate student coughing blood?" Foreman scoffs as he brings over mugs of coffee for himself and Cameron. Chase notices the sideways glance in his direction, but doesn't say anything about it. "Obviously there was head trauma."

Cameron glances down at the file, then shakes her head. "CT showed no sign of swelling or inflammation of any kind."

"So, it wasn't severe enough to cause any major swelling," Foreman dismisses her. "How much of a hit does it really take to make your nose bleed?"

"You get to the point where there wasn't any head trauma yet?" House interrupts from the doorway, and it feels as though there's a momentary shift in air pressure as they all turn to look at him in surprise. House shrugs. "It's almost nine o'clock. Official start of the workday. I'd be remiss if I wasn't here by now."

"Are you going to let us finish reading the file?" Cameron asks.

"Nope," House answers, taking a long pull from the coffee cup in his hand. "File's useless. Says the blood didn't come from anywhere. If it didn't come from anywhere, that would mean there was no blood, which would mean we could all be playing hangman instead of talking about this girl. Foreman, go check out her dorm room. Find out what kind of fun she has on weekends. Cameron, go get a better history."

They stare at House for another surprised moment before setting themselves into motion, acceptance of his orders more than routine by now. Chase gets up to follow them, nearly tripping over House's cane when it comes down on the table in front of him.

"Dr. Invalid," says House, looking Chase up and down, making him suddenly wish that he could feel invisible again. "You stay here with me."

"What?" Chase asks through a surge of defensiveness. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Yes," answers House, nodding gravely. "You forgot to bring the donuts. That's a new rule the department has for employees coming back from medical leave."

* * *

Feedback has the potential to earn my eternal love!


	8. Proof

NOTES: Okay, really, I'm going to try to stop epic failing at update intervals on this fic. But I know how it ends now! I have a goal in sight! If anyone would like to make my real life go away, that would be much appreciated. Still no commentary. I'm not really sure where to go with it for a while. Is there anything in particular you guys would like to know about? I'm happy to answer questions. I've spent my summer working in a lab studying diabetes complications, which I'm sure you already know if you have me friended on LJ and have been reading my emo posts about it.

Chapter Eight: Proof

The next morning, Chase stops at the grocery store before work and buys a box of a dozen glazed donuts. They aren't the kind House likes, and he knows it, but actually pleasing people isn't the point. This is about proving that nothing has changed, that he is still as good a doctor as ever, that he still can handle House's harassment.

Cameron is already there when he arrives, though he's half an hour early. House's office is unsurprisingly still empty, but Chase cringes inwardly, not wanting to alone in it with Cameron and the donuts. Still, there's nowhere else in the hospital that he feels comfortable at the moment, nowhere he can go without sensing people's eyes on him and knowing that he is the latest hot topic in hospital gossip. And so he goes into the office anyway, silently praying that Cameron will be wrapped up in the medical journal she's reading.

"What's that?" she asks, looking up the instant he walks in the door as if on cue.

"Nothing," Chase snaps, putting the donut box down on the conference table and dropping his bag on the chair. Feeling suddenly very tired, he makes his way over to the coffee pot and starting it brewing. Unbidden, he remembers the story Cameron told him about watching Foreman try to make coffee right after he'd gotten back from his medical leave. At least nobody can argue that he is unable to perform such basic tasks, Chase thinks. Most people would never know, just looking at him.

"Chase." Cameron's voice jerks him out of his thoughts, and he turns around to face her again, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

"What?"

"Coffee?" Cameron asks, looking concerned.

"There's nothing wrong with it," Chase snaps defensively. "I'm not gonna put sugar in it. I'm not that hopeless."

"That's not what I meant," Cameron protests weakly, taking a few steps closer. "Just—You look really tired. Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should check your blood sugar. You know, fatigue can be a symptom of—"

"I'm fine!" Chase cuts her off, too loudly. And he is, he thinks, or would be if everyone would just stop reminding him of what's happened and allow him to get back to some semblance of normalcy. "I can still get tired, you know! I can get upset, too. Hell, I can even get regular old colds and stuff! It's not like somehow I'm magically immune to everything else now and anything that happens to me _must_ be a symptom of diabetes! It's not even like you cared how I was feeling before, so give it up!"

"Okay," Cameron says meekly, sounding taken aback, and Chase feels guilty for reacting so harshly. But it only lasts a second, because next she looks at the box again, and her face hardens into lines of disapproval. "Donuts? Seriously?"

"They're not for me!" He could easily tell her about House's bullying, and knows that she would believe him. But that seems suddenly the more shameful option, and Chase finds himself unable to admit that he's made such a weak decision so soon after coming back to work.

Cameron narrows her eyes, taking another step closer to him, and poking the box with a finger so that the lid caves in ever so slightly. "You brought them."

"They're for the department," Chase argues lamely, knowing instantly that she won't believe him, even though it's partially true.

"Right, that makes sense," she answers sarcastically. "Because Foreman and I eat donuts all the time. Especially for breakfast. You're in denial." She opens the box, and Chase thinks he can see her counting silently. "How many were in here? Did you eat any?"

"No!" Chase shouts, feeling suddenly like he's losing the precarious grasp on control he's managed to establish the past few days. "And I wasn't going to! God, Cameron, what do you think I am?"

Cameron opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the door swinging open, and House walking in as if on cue. Chase isn't sure whether to be relieved, or even more apprehensive.

"Dr. Invalid!" House says in greeting, and Chase cringes immediately, looking away to avoid seeing Cameron's response. "You brought my donuts. You're pathetic."

"You?" asks Cameron, gaping at House. "You made him do this?"

"Please don't," Chase mutters, half under his breath. He's reminded suddenly of the coma-dream, in which no one would listen to him or acknowledge his existence.

"I didn't _make_ him do anything," House answers, with a false cheerfulness. "I _asked_ him to bring donuts for everyone, to celebrate his coming back to work."

"You know he can't eat them! That's just cruel."

"Actually, he could, if he'd bothered to read any of those helpful books I'm sure the educator gave him." House's voice changes to a tone of mocking superiority that reminds Chase of the class presentation. "Just has to work a little harder at 'managing his condition.'"

"I don't see you helping with that!" Cameron steps around Chase to confront House, until she's practically in her face, like she's trying to intimidate him despite their considerable height difference.

"I'm right here!" Chase breaks in finally, feeling nearly overwhelmed with frustration and shame that it's come to this—his colleagues fighting over his ability to eat donuts. It's about the furthest thing from normal he could imagine. "And I don't need either of you to decide what I can or can't do!"

"Wow," says House, staring at him for a moment. For a fleeting second, Chase thinks things might end here, that his outburst might by some blessing be sufficient to stop their speculation about him. But of course House is not so easily deterred, his next words tinged with sarcasm again. "I guess you're not such a pushover after all."

"I did what you asked," Chase answers icily. "Now give me work to do or leave me alone."

Cameron looks genuinely hurt, and Chase feels guilty again for yelling at her. He knows she's just tried to stand up to House on his behalf, that she's doing all of this out of a good-natured attempt to help him adjust to the new reality of his life. But she's never showed him this kind of concern before, not even when he wanted it. And now, her constant reminders are making it seem like nothing will ever feel normal again when all he really wants is to get back into a routine. Having Cameron yell at House simply makes him feel as though neither of them thinks he is capable of coping with this, or even the things he's been doing for years.

"Well," says House, "since you asked so nicely. Cameron, you can go do four clinic hours for me. Chase. In my office."

"What?" Cameron looks both surprised and concerned, and Chase wonders what this would have felt like had they actually been friends before he got sick.

"No case today," House answers, scooping up his ID from where it's resting on the edge of the bookshelf. "But I have clinic duty. So now, you have clinic duty. Have fun. And make sure you don't piss anyone off while you're wearing this. Wouldn't want to tarnish my reputation."

Cameron looks back and forth between the two of them for a moment, like she's not entirely sure whether she ought to leave them alone together. Then, giving in to frustration, she throws up her hands and sighs. "Fine." Snatching the badge from House, she turns and sweeps out of the room.

"What are you doing?" Chase asks warily, turning to face House the instant Cameron's gone.

"In my office," House repeats, heading in that direction without waiting for Chase to follow. He's in his chair and booting up the computer by the time Chase makes his way in the door, feeling almost paralyzed by trepidation. Coming to work today was a mistake, he thinks, though it's not like he wants to go back on medical leave. But there isn't a case, and that means House will be bored. That's never a good thing, especially when there's anything personal going on in the department.

"What did you want?" Chase snaps, entirely on edge.

"Touchy." House gives him an appraising look, the kind Chase always thinks can go straight through people.

"I'm not here to play games," Chase answers, hoping that if he puts up enough of a front, House will leave him alone. "And where's Foreman?"

"Home in bed, I hope. I told him to take the day off."

"What?" It's typical House, manipulating the people around him to watch the aftermath, like a spectator in a warzone.

"Well, it only seemed like the nice thing to do, considering his recent medical problems." House's gaze edges toward cruel. "Oh no wait, that's you. My bad. Maybe you should go home too."

"I came here to do my job," Chase answers carefully, determined not to let House upset him further. "Now let me do it. You sent Cameron to the clinic. I could have gone. I could go now."

"No," says House, simply and firmly.

"Why?" Chase rests his palms on the edge of the desk, leaning forward just a little.

"You're not ready." House pulls up his email on the computer screen.

"I'm fine! I've been cleared to come back to work," Chase protests. "I want to work."

"You are not fine," House insists. "I mean, my god, you brought donuts! What kind of diabetic does that?"

"You told me to!" Chase throws up his hands in frustration. "And there's no reason why I can't bring donuts, if I feel like it. Stop treating me like I'm incompetent or an invalid."

House snorts. "But you are an invalid. A few weeks ago, you were on the floor in a pool of your own vomit and urine. And, well, you've always been incompetent."

Chase grits his teeth, determined not to let House see how close those statements are to his actual fears. He knows, rationally, that he is still more than capable of doing his job and doing it well. And yet, he can't stop thinking that everyone else is doubting him, that never again will he truly be able to look a patient in the eye and expect them to trust him with their life. And how can he trust himself now? Does it matter that his disease can be controlled, that it ought not to affect his ability to live a normal life? He still missed his own diagnosis—even after he'd been told, he'd been unable to accept it. How, ever again, can he be confident in his ability to figure out what's wrong with his patients?

"I'm fine," Chase repeats tightly, for what feels like the millionth time in the past few weeks. There is no other possible response, he's learned. Even when it's not true.

"Right," House scoffs. "Either you're in denial, or you are nowhere near fine. If you were fine, you'd be acting like a normal patient adjusting to a new diagnosis. You'd be getting upset. You'd be making mistakes. You'd be needing help. Or at least admitting that all of those things were going on. But you—you just keep pushing everyone away, and insisting that everything is exactly the same as it was before. Here's something you might not realize: It's not the same. You're sick now. And if you don't accept it, you're headed for a huge crash and burn."

"Shut up!" Chase explodes at last, knowing that this is what House has been slowly building towards since ordering him to bring the donuts the previous day, but still powerless to stop himself. "I'm not denying anything! I'm trying to accept this! I'm trying to get back to normal. But I can't do that when I'm here, because when I'm here, all anyone does is remind me that I'm sick! If you wanted to help me, you'd leave me the hell alone! Stop pretending you care. You just want me to be miserable because you are."

House is quiet for a very long moment before smiling slowly.

"What?" asks Chase, suddenly breathless.

House just shakes his head. "Cuddy wants to see you."

--

Feedback is love!


	9. Compliance

NOTES: See, look—a nice normal update interval. Commentary is linked from my profile. (And if anyone's interested, I also linked the pictures from my trip to see JS/Band from TV in Miami in May.) If you're still reading this, please let me know. I know it's been a while.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Compliance

The elevator seems suddenly too tight, the atrium too quiet and the air too still as Chase makes his way to Cuddy's office. She's on the phone, he can see through the partially open drapes, and he stands outside the door for a long moment, trying to swallow down the overwhelming sense of trepidation that seems to root his feet to the tile floor. He can see his reflection in the glass of Cuddy's window, still gaunt almost to the point of frailty, the darkness under his eyes now the product of exhaustion rather than sickness. But illness is all that anyone will see when they look at him, he thinks. Despite all his attempts at normalcy, at regaining some semblance of a routine, everyone who knows will only see the potential for disaster in his every action, like Cameron's concern over the coffee.

House's words echo in his mind, tightening the knot of anxiety that's been a constant resident in the pit of his stomach since his diagnosis. He wants to believe that it isn't wrong to try to get back to his life, to minimize this so that it doesn't become all-consuming. Cameron is just trying to help, he knows, but the last thing he wants is for this to impact anyone else. House is using this to manipulate and study him, Chase tells himself. He's done this a thousand times before. House knows exactly where to poke and prod to expose people's insecurities. What he's said ought to be meaningless.

And yet—House is always right.

It's the last thought in his mind when Cuddy suddenly puts down the phone and comes to open the door of her office, and it lingers like a bitter aftertaste, turning his stomach.

"Dr. Chase. Come in." Cuddy is wearing the sympathetic smile Chase is accustomed to seeing directed at the families of patients House has upset, and he keeps his eyes downcast as he steps inside. He can feel her gaze on his back as he makes his way to the chair in front of her desk, knows that she is comparing the things she's read in his chart to any physical signs of illness. It's exactly how he would approach a patient, but sensing it from a colleague is deeply unsettling.

"Dr. Cuddy." Chase nods, folding his hands in his lap and wishing for the umpteenth time that he'd thought to at least wear his lab coat, so it wouldn't be so glaringly obvious how much weight he's lost. "You wanted to see me?"

Cuddy walks around the other side of her desk, straightening up the piles of papers on the surface before addressing him again. The air seems too thick again, every muscle in Chase's body tense almost to the point of soreness. He realizes suddenly that he can't remember the last time he felt truly relaxed.

"Yes." Cuddy glances up, finally. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?"

It's unlike her, and Chase shakes off lingering defensiveness from the morning, telling himself that she's just trying to be considerate. If there's anyone he needs to prove his competence to now, it's Cuddy. "I'm fine," he answers tightly.

"Okay." Pulling out her chair, Cuddy sits as well, folding her hands on the surface of the desk in a perfect mirror image of discomfort. Chase has suspected from the moment House notified him of the meeting, but suddenly he's absolutely certain what this conversation is going to be about. "It's good to have you back at work. I just thought we ought to discuss--"

"You want to know how I'm doing," Chase cuts in, surprising himself. He's never been particularly given to aggressiveness, or even assertiveness, really. But now, in the midst of losing every confidence in himself and his ability to do his job, he can't seem to stop these outbursts, stop defending himself and pushing people away. It's like there's a monster inside of him along with the disease, poking and prodding until Chase is in control of nothing—not work, not his relationships, and certainly not his health.

"Yes," Cuddy answers. "It's my job to ask. And I'm—concerned. You've had some hard news in the past few weeks."

"Are you concerned for my well-being, or that I'll be a liability for you now?" It's like listening to himself from very far away, all the thoughts which once remained silently in his mind now given voice, whether he likes it or not. "It's your job to worry about that too, isn't it?"

Cuddy sighs, and Chase can see that she's making an effort to remain calm and patient. "Dr. Chase, I have every confidence that you are an excellent doctor. Therefore, I trust that you can not only take care of yourself, but continue to care for your patients as well. That's not why I asked you to come here this morning."

"Then what did you want?" Chase looks down at his hands, digging fingernails into the underside of his palm where she won't be able to see. He can already make out the beginnings of scars on his fingertips from all the needles, and wonders absently what they will look like years from now. Yet another reality of disease for which medical training has not prepared him.

"You only took a few weeks of leave. You came back full-time as soon as you got clearance. You can have more time if you need it," Cuddy offers.

"I don't," Chase answers, too quickly and probably more firmly than necessary. "I told you, I'm fine."

"Okay. Well, as you know, your health insurance will continue to be covered through the hospital, so you won't need to worry about that. We do have the occasional clinical trial here for new diabetes management techniques, if you want I can look into getting you information about that." Cuddy is already searching through yet another stack of papers, pulling something up on her computer without waiting for a response.

"No," says Chase, the thought of being someone else's lab rat suddenly unacceptable. He's never looked at it this way before, never had a problem helping House do whatever was necessary for the supposed good of the patient.

Cuddy looks taken aback, and Chase is sure she's expected gratitude in return for her offer of support. And yet, he can't bring himself to feel guilty. "Well, we can talk about other accommodations, if you'd like. We can reduce your hours, if that would help. Eliminate your obligation to the clinic. Just let me know what you need, and we can work out--"

"Nothing!" Chase snaps, on his feet before he realizes what he's doing. Cuddy is still seated, now gaping at him in shock, and he knows he ought to apologize. But at the moment it's all he can do to stay within the bounds of civility. "I just—need everyone to leave me alone. Let me do my job. Stop acting like this affects you, because it doesn't. As far as you're concerned, nothing's changed."

* * *

From Cuddy's office, Chase finds his way to the clinic, still in a haze of confused emotions, and suddenly desperate for anything else to focus on. He hasn't done any real work so far in the few days that he's been back, and he finds himself strangely disappointed that the previous day's case was resolved so quickly, before he'd had a chance to play a part at all. The clinic seems at once like a refuge, engaging enough to keep unwanted thoughts at bay, yet so routine that he has no doubts in his abilities.

"Dr. Chase." Nurse Previn gives him an appraising look by way of greeting, and he swallows down the thought that she must have heard the gossip about him as well. She is irrelevant to his ability to work here today, and she always treats everyone as though they might be plotting a coup besides.

"Looks busy today," Chase answers, determined to act as though everything is normal. "Got a file for me?"

He barely glances at the chart before going into the exam room, expecting a routine cold or injury too minor for the ER to treat. But the man he's confronted with is anything but typical. The patient is seated in a chair next to the examining table, and Chase realizes immediately that this is because his weight is too great for the metal surface to support. A glance at the chart tells him the man's current weight is 432 pounds.

Chase clears his throat. "Mr. Emmerson?"

The man nods sourly, like the greeting is an offense. "That's me."

Examining the chart more closely, Chase tries to gather up the pieces of his training and get his brain back on track to treat this man. He feels as though it's been years since he's seen a patient, rather than the actual few weeks. "Says here that you had gastric bypass surgery two months ago, and have lost forty pounds so far since then." Glancing back up, Chase notices that the man's skin is starting to look the slightest bit sallow, indicative of extremely rapid weight loss.

"That's right." Flat, abrupt, and edged with the slightest hint of defensiveness, like a warning against saying the wrong thing.

"And...you're here now with a complaint of unremitting diarrhea and constant nausea," Chase finishes, getting to the end of the chart. "How long has this been going on?"

Mr. Emmerson shrugs. "Pretty much since I had the surgery. They said it would get better, but...If I'd known I was going to feel like this for the rest of my life, I never would have had the operation! My doctor said I'd die if I didn't lose weight. Well, I'd like him to know that I'd rather die fat than be miserable!"

"Okay, okay." Chase holds up a hand to try and calm the other man. "May I ask why you're here, and not at your surgeon's office? This is really a concern that should be discussed with him. I can give you a mild anti-emetic, but with the risk of post-surgical infection, you should really get checked--"

"He doesn't listen to me!" Emmerson explodes, turning red in the face. Chase jumps reflexively, the excess of adrenaline he's built up from the morning betraying his attempts at calm.

"Have you told him how severe your problems are?" Chase tries again. "The point of the operation is to improve general health and quality of life. If either of those is compromised after the fact, I'd certainly think he'd want to know--"

"He doesn't care!" Emmerson interrupts again, hauling himself to his feet with effort, and the exam room suddenly feels uncomfortably small to Chase.

"All right." Chase takes a step backward, trying to be inconspicuous about the motion. "Well, the best I can do for you today is to give you an anti-emetic. And I can refer you to a different bariatric specialist, if you'd like."

"No!" Emmerson insists, breathing harder. His breath has a foul smell, Chase realizes, and wonders absently if it's a result of tooth decay caused by the constant nausea. "I don't want another bariatric doctor. All they do is tell me to change the way I eat! The whole point of getting the damn surgery was so that I didn't have to do that! If I wanted someone to tell me to change my eating, I would have gone on a god damn diet instead of having someone cut me open!"

"Wait." Chase pauses, glancing at the chart again, and trying to ignore the growing sense of panic that's blossoming in the pit of his stomach. "You're telling me you haven't been following the dietary instructions your doctor gave you? I know they can be difficult, but that's probably why you've been feeling sick. It's very important for you to follow that regimen, or you won't get the nutrients you need."

"Damn it!" Emmerson roars, and Chase is certain the rest of the clinic can hear him through the thin walls. "You're just like the rest of them!"

"I'm going to order some bloodwork," Chase continues, glad for the excuse to look at the chart instead of the patient. It's hard not to see himself in the man's eyes, filled with frustration and hopelessness and grief. "Between the surgery, the nausea, and the diarrhea, you're probably malnourished. We can get you on some vitamin supplements, and that should help you get some of your energy back."

But Emmerson isn't finished yelling. "It's so easy for you all! Look at you! Thin, blond, attractive! You have it all! I bet they even gave you a free pass through med school just for being so damn good-looking! And here you are, preaching to me like you know what I'm going through, you arrogant son of a bitch! I bet you've never been sick in your life."

"Enough!" The sound of the file slamming against the exam table makes Chase jump, though it's his own hand that's brought the folder there. "This isn't about me! It doesn't matter what I do or don't understand, what matters is that _I'm_ your doctor right now and _you_ need to comply with the guidelines you've been given! Otherwise don't expect anyone to feel any sympathy for you when you get sick. You did this to yourself, and you're apparently not done making it worse."

Chase is out of breath when he runs out of words, shaking and sweating in the small room. A hush has fallen over the noisy waiting area outside, it seems, and Emmerson is looking over Chase's shoulder, not reacting. Turning slowly, Chase is horrified to see the door open and Cameron standing just inside it, a look of slack-jawed shock on her face.

"I'll—go give these orders to the nurse," Chase says weakly, clinging to the last shred of professionalism like it might somehow be able to save this disastrous appointment.

"No, you won't," Cameron says firmly, stepping forward and taking the file from his hand. "I'll take care of this. Maybe—maybe you should go home. Or see your doctor, get--"

"_No_!" Chase cuts her off, desperate that this man not hear the reality of his own situation. "I'm fine!"

But Cameron only shakes her head, and the sympathy in her eyes is agonizing to look at. "You are not fine."

Without another word, Chase turns and hurries out of the room, walking as quickly as his legs will carry him short of a full-fledged run. Keeping his head down, he doesn't stop until he finds himself inside the wooden doors of the chapel.

–


	10. Sanctuary

NOTES: I debated long and hard whether I even wanted to post this chapter, but here you go. I said it in my last commentary, but I'll say it again in case you didn't read that—The opinions regarding disease/medical conditions and lifestyle are as I believe these characters would feel, and not my own. No offense is intended should you happen to disagree.

Chapter Ten: Sanctuary

The inside of the chapel is cool, quiet and dark in comparison to the rest of the hospital. The room feels like it's full of just a little too much air conditioning, like it's been unoccupied just a little too long. Chase stops as soon as the doors close at his back, legs having carried him here before the rest of his mind and body have had time to register exactly what's happened. The chapel is mercifully empty, and he finds himself suddenly exhausted, all the morning's emotions catching up to him in the stillness. He's fled here so that the rest of the hospital will not see his failure, but now there's suddenly no place to hide from himself.

Taking a deep breath, Chase makes his way to the front pew, vision adjusting to the dimmer light. He sits heavily, momentarily resting his elbows on his knees and pressing the heels of his hands against tightly closed eyelids, attempting to exhale the horrible feelings of humiliation and dread still roiling in the pit of his stomach.

He can't say why this place feels like a sanctuary now, or why he's subconsciously chosen it as his escape in this moment. Looking up at last toward the altar and stained glass, he knows he ought to feel confronted with his own shortcomings; his own lack of faith. And yet, when he really thinks about it, all he can muster up is a vague sense of betrayal which seems oddly fitting. He's been questioning his belief for such a long time now, unable to put into words exactly how far he's fallen from the time when it was his unquestionable comfort, the passion to which he'd planned to devote the rest of his life. But now—now it suddenly seems harder than ever to believe that what's happened to him is not random, that there is any purpose to this trial or anything to be learned except that the universe is undoubtedly cruel.

Cameron's hand on his arm makes him jump, and he realizes suddenly that he doesn't know whether he's been sitting here for minutes or hours. He hasn't noticed her taking the seat beside him, nor does he know how long she might have been here watching, and suddenly the sense of solitude is gone, replaced by slight sting of violation.

"Hi," she says softly, crossing her legs and folding her hands neatly over her knee.

"Go away," Chase mutters, entirely too tired to put up a front of composure for her benefit. She'll just try to peel it away regardless, he knows, and he's certain she'll leave as soon as she sees the truth, anyway, finally realizing the mistake she's making. And yet, the part of him that suddenly can't bear to look at the altar in the front of the chapel thinks it's better to just give in now, and get the inevitable heartbreak over with.

"Why?" Cameron asks, not sounding as upset as she ought to.

Chase looks away, preemptive annoyance with her growing in the pit of his stomach and making his head pound. "I don't want to talk about what happened. I don't want your help. And I especially don't want your pity."

He thinks certainly she must react now, must be hurt, must run away like so many times in the past. He is testing her, Chase realizes. Torn between the immediacy of wanting her to leave, and the deeper need for someone—anyone—who is truly willing to stay.

"Who said that's why I'm here?" she counters softly, looking at him sideways and defying every expectation.

"I—you—no one," he manages at last, sighing heavily. "But I'm not talking to you. Just so we're clear."

Cameron shrugs, her face still a perfect mask of calm. "Okay."

Her response makes him feel off-balance, even less at ease in his own skin than he has over the past few weeks. Nothing is as he expects it to be now, and it doesn't matter how many different ways he reads the words that this diagnosis doesn't have to change his life—It already has. The silence stretches between them, the words growing heavier and heavier on his tongue until Chase feels as though these thoughts might suffocate him.

"Nothing's the same anymore." His voice sounds foreign in his ears, and for a second he doesn't realize that he's spoken the words aloud, they've repeated so many times in his head. Chase swallows. "I'm not the same."

Cameron glances sideways at him again, her eyes filled with concern. "You know that's not true. You're a doctor, you know that illness doesn't--"

"Don't," Chase interrupts her sharply. "Don't even try."

Cameron flinches almost imperceptibly, biting her lip. "Okay."

Chase lets out another breath, more slowly this time. The renewed silence seems to sit like a weight on his chest, making his heart beat abnormally loudly in his ears. "He always had a choice," he says at last, softly, trying desperately to get control of what he's feeling, to wrangle the emotions into words. It feels suddenly somehow as though his only hope of getting beyond this is to speak it aloud, to banish the demons that seem to have taken up residence in his conscience.

Cameron uncrosses her legs, turning her whole body sideways this time, as though she's somehow sensed his decision to talk to her in earnest. Her hands flutter nervously in her lap, and for a moment Chase thinks she is going to reach for one of his, but then she quietly settles them on her knee again. "Your patient?" she asks carefully.

Chase nods. "His lifestyle got him where he was, needing surgery." Cameron's face tenses ever so slightly with what he knows is disapproval, and he continues quickly. "So maybe genetics didn't help. Maybe he had a metabolic condition. I don't really care. He still didn't help himself. He failed to take action until he was practically dead."

"And you?" Cameron asks quietly, not quite looking him in the eye.

"What?"

"What about you?" she repeats, her voice shifting into the tone she uses when trying to break upsetting news to patients as calmly as possible. "You're a doctor. You waited until you were practically dead on the bathroom floor. You never took action when you got sick. If Foreman hadn't found you…" Cameron takes a shaky breath, visibly trying to control herself. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to scold you."

Chase just stares at her for a moment, choking on too many different emotions to speak. His immediate gut response is to shut her out again, label her words as an attack, and withdraw. After all, who is she to judge his actions regarding his own health? Who is she to claim to understand? Cameron is not the one living with the unending daily reality; not the one feeling the effects of his choices. And yet, is that not exactly what they do every day, as doctors? Isn't that why he's just gotten so upset at Mr. Emmerson in the clinic?

"That's not what I meant," Chase says at last, deciding to save that debate for another day, when everything around him doesn't feel like it might be about to crumble.

"What did you mean?" Cameron bites her lip, and suddenly he can't stop the memory of kissing her, the desperate tangle of limbs and clothing. She'd seemed almost like a different woman then, hard around the edges but so much more alive. It's almost shocking to have her so close to him now, and yet so changed.

"He got the easy way out. He had surgery. Now all he's got to do is follow the instructions his doctor gave him and everything'll just go according to plan. He'll lose weight. Get his energy back. Have his life go back to normal!" Chase pauses, forcing himself to breathe. His hands are shaking, he notices, and he shoves them into his pockets, though he knows Cameron must have already seen. "But he's not doing that. Instead he wants to keep living exactly the way he did before, and attack anyone who dares point out the fact that his problems would go away entirely if he'd just stop doing it to himself. It's—it's not fair." Shame rushes over him the second the words are out of his mouth; they sound petty and shallow bouncing off the walls of the chapel.

Cameron hesitates for a moment longer, then reaches out and takes his wrist, retrieving his hand from his pocket and wrapping it in both of hers. "This isn't about him, is it. It's about you." It isn't a question.

"That's ridiculous," Chase snaps, every muscle in his body instantly going rigid. This is a conversation that he can't have with her. _Won't_ have with her. She claims to want to help him, he knows, but then she says that about everyone. It's the quality he most admires in her, and also the reason he can't trust this. Empathy is what he wishes from everyone else; from Cameron—it's something different. Something he can't quite put into words, even in his mind.

"It's true," Cameron insists. "Maybe you are talking about the patient. But you're also talking about yourself. You want him to follow his doctor's instructions, you think that will give him a normal life. But what about you? I know you don't want me asking. I know you don't want me sticking my nose in your personal business." She pauses, taking a breath, not looking at him as if that might minimize the impact of her words. "But I also know that you're only doing the bare minimum of what you should be doing for your health. So you've managed to keep yourself out of the hospital so far since your diagnosis. That's about it. Is that really how you want to live? Always just a little bit better than terribly sick?"

The words make Chase's breath catch in his throat; make the ever-present knots in his stomach tighten, like monsters trying to break their way out. She's right, he knows. It would actually be easier if she _were_ yelling at him, scolding, pushing like she always does. But for once she isn't. She is just here, quietly concerned, and when she finally does look at him, her eyes are openly imploring.

Chase swallows. "Why are you doing this?"

"What do you mean?" It's obviously an evasion. "I'm concerned about you."

Chase snorts, bitterness flooding back in a split second. "Don't give me that. You're not concerned. You just have a pathological need to help people."

Cameron flinches, but doesn't move, squeezing his hand and taking a shaky breath. "I care about you. Just because I didn't want a relationship with you doesn't mean you're not important to me. You're my friend."

"Didn't?" Chase repeats, suddenly feeling as breathless as she sounds.

But Cameron forges onward. "You need people that you trust. People who can help you. When I first met my husband--"

"Don't!" Chase snaps, the beginnings of hope he's felt stirring in the past few moments turning instantly to sour betrayal. "That's why you're doing this? Because I remind you of him now? Because I'm sick, so—suddenly I'm interesting? I'm not dying! Not even close!" He's on his feet in a dizzying rush, leaving Cameron staring at him in shock. "Like I'd ever trust you."

--


End file.
